Записи с темой: c (список заголовков)


The oldest poem in English: Cædmon's Hymn (c. 670 AD) transcribed in West Saxon dialect in Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People. With Modern English subtitles.

@темы: 7, c, english, english-british, links, middle centuries, youtube


Lucille Clifton
blessing the boats

(at St. Mary’s)
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

@темы: english-american, c, 20


читать дальше

В 1946 году издательство Арнольд-Борда издало сборник стихотворений Поля Элюара под названием "Жаркая жажда жить" (Le dur désir de durer). В книге были даны 25 рисунков и цветной фронтиспис работы Марка Шагала. Зять Шагала, Франц Мейер вспоминал, что в мае 1946 года Шагал на три месяца приехал в Париж из США. В Париже завязалась его дружба с Элюаром и в итоге появилась эта книга - сборник 19 стихотворений Элюара, иллюстрированных рисунками Шагала в близком соответствии тексту.
Сам Элюар в сборнике посвятил одно стихотворение Шагалу и написал такие слова: "Когда я писал эти стихи, я знал, что они будут иллюстрированы рисунками Марка Шагала". В 1957 году Фрэнсис Пуленк положил стихотворение посвящение на музыку в цикле песен под общим названием "Работа живописца" ("Le travail du Peintre").

Paul Éluard
A Marc Chagall

читать дальше

Поль Элюар
Марку Шагалу

Корова осел петух или конь
И вот уже скрипки живая плоть
Человек одинокая птица певец
Проворный танцор со своей женой

Чета окунувшаяся в весну

Золото трав неба свинец
Разделенные синим огнем
Огнем здоровья огнем росы
И кровь смеется и сердце звенит

Чета самый первый блик

А в подземелье снежном
Гроздь винограда чертит
Лунные губы лицо
Никогда не спавшее ночью.

пер. М. Н. Ваксмахер

Песня Пуленка

Шагал - Весна 1938 год
19.89 КБ

@темы: e, c, art, 20, eluard, paul, francaise, illustrations, music, p, pittura, surrealism, youtube, п, ш/щ, э


Hart Crane

With crimson feathers whips away the mists,—
Dives through the filter of trellises
And gilds the silver on the blotched arbor-seats.

Now gold and purple scintillate
On trees that seem dancing
In delirium;
Then the moon
In a mad orange flare
Floods the grape-hung night.

@темы: english-american, c, 20


Carl Sandburg
Chicago Poems. 1916
140. Letters to Dead Imagists

YOU gave us the bumble bee who has a soul,
The everlasting traveler among the hollyhocks,
And how God plays around a back yard garden.

War is kind and we never knew the kindness of war till you came;
Nor the black riders and clashes of spear and shield out of the sea,
Nor the mumblings and shots that rise from dreams on call.

@темы: 20, c, d, english-american, english-british, s, sandburg, carl



Willa Cather

Where are the loves that we have loved before
When once we are alone, and shut the door?
No matter whose the arms that held me fast,
The arms of Darkness hold me at the last.
No matter down what primrose path I tend,
I kiss the lips of Silence in the end.
No matter on what heart I found delight,
I come again unto the breast of Night.
No matter when or how love did befall,
’Tis Loneliness that loves me best of all,
And in the end she claims me, and I know
That she will stay, though all the rest may go.
No matter whose the eyes that I would keep
Near in the dark, ’tis in the eyes of Sleep
That I must look and look forever more,
When once I am alone, and shut the door.

@темы: 20, c, english-american


E. E. Cummings
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

читать дальше

@темы: english-american, c, 20


E. E. Cummings
Summer Silence

Eruptive lightnings flutter to and fro
Above the heights of immemorial hills;
Thirst-stricken air, dumb-throated, in its woe
Limply down-sagging, its limp body spills
Upon the earth. A panting silence fills
The empty vault of Night with shimmering bars
Of sullen silver, where the lake distils
Its misered bounty.—Hark! No whisper mars
The utter silence of the untranslated stars.

@темы: english-american, c, 20


Joseph Seamon Cotter, Jr.
A Prayer

As I lie in bed,
Flat on my back;
There passes across my ceiling
An endless panorama of things—
Quick steps of gay-voiced children,
Adolescence in its wondering silences,
Maid and man on moonlit summer’s eve,
Women in the holy glow of Motherhood,
Old men gazing silently thru the twilight
Into the beyond.
O God, give me words to make my dream-children live.

@темы: 20, c, english-american, harlem renaissance


Lawrence Durrell

I like to see so much the old man's loves
Egregious if you like and often shabby
Protruding from the ass's skin of verse,
For better or for worse,
The bones of poems cultured by a thirst —
Dilapidated taverns, dark eyes washed
Now in the wry and loving brilliance
Of such barbaric memories
As held them when the dyes of passion ran.
No cant about the sottishness of man!

The forest of dark eyes he mused upon,
Out of ikons, waking beside his own
In stuffy brothels on stained mattresses,
Watched by the melting vision of the flesh,
Eros the tutor of our callowness
Deployed like ants across his ageing flesh
The crises of great art, the riders
Of love, their bloody lariats whistling,
The cries locked in the quickened breath,
The love-feast of a sort of love-in-death.

читать дальше

@темы: english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, cavafy, c, 20, helenike


C.P. Cavafy - April 29, 1863-April 29, 1933

Gieb ihr ein Schweigen (c)
23.10.2015 в 12:55
Пишет Lika_k:

Я просто не могла удержаться и не сохранить это и отдельно.
Даниэл Мендельсон читает "Since Nine" Кавафиса в оригинале. На самом деле я давно уже слышала его чтение того же самого вот здесь в самом конце (здесь отдельно отрывок с чтением стихотворения). Там он еще много интересного говорит - об отношении к искусству и в частности к литературе. И мое любимое: "I need a commentary to read Callimachus. That does not make Callimachus a worse poet. Makes me a worse reader maybe". И это не снобизм, потому что читатель "обязывается" не знать и понимать все, а иметь желание и/или мотивацию понимать больше, чем он может в этот самый момент. Вместо того, чтобы предъявлять претензии автору. Вот он ответ заявлениям типа "Фолкнер - отстой". И еще прекрасно про культурный снобизм и про то, что Classical Studies делают человека не зацикленным на античность и высокую культуру, а дают подходящие инструменты для восприятия и анализа вообще культуры.

C.P. Cavafy
Since Nine

читать дальше

URL записи

@темы: youtube, repost, helenike, compleanno, cavafy, c, 20, 19


Lydia Maria Child
Thanksgiving Day

Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood—
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes
And bites the nose
As over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river, and through the wood
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting-hound!
For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate.
We seem to go
Extremely slow,—
It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood—
Now grandmother’s cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!

@темы: english-american, c, 19


Paul Celan
This year
does not roar across,
it throws back December, November,
it turns up its wounds,
it opens up to you, young

tr. by Pierre Joris

@темы: deutsche-oesterreichisch, celan, paul, c, 20


Tyler Mills
House of Père Lacroix

I thought I would write a novel
about the window with its shadow
set in the two-story house.
Cézanne stands at the sunchoke hedge,
alone and licking a brush
among the tree’s traces of changing shade.
The woman—I named her
and almost saw her—could be
flapping a pillowcase at the shutter
as though fanning a fire
that takes the frame by its walls.
читать дальше


The House of Pere Lacroix in Auvers, 1873 - Paul Cezanne


@темы: pittura, m, links, francaise, english-american, c, art, 21, 19


Paul Celan
So many constellations that
are held out to us. I was,
when I looked at you — when? —
outside by
the other worlds.
O these ways, galactic.
O this hour, that weighed
nights over for us into
the burden of our names. It is,
I know, not true
that we lived, there moved,
blindly, no more than a breath between
There and Not-There, and at times
our eyes whirred comet-like
toward things extinguished, in chasms,
and where they had burnt out,
splendid with teats, stood Time
on which already grew up
and down and away all that
is or was or will be —,

I know.
I know and you know, we knew,
we did not knew, we
were there, after all, and not there
and at times when
only the void stood between us we got
all the way to each other.

transl. by Michael Hamburger

@темы: deutsche-oesterreichisch, celan, paul, c, 20


E. E. Cummings

Great carnal mountains crouching in the cloud
That marrieth the young earth with a ring,
Yet still its thoughts builds heavenward, whence spring
Wee villages of vapor, sunset-proud.—
And to the meanest door hastes one pure-browed
White-fingered star, a little, childish thing,
The busy needle of her light to bring,
And stitch, and stitch, upon the dead day’s shroud.
Poises the sun upon his west, a spark
Superlative,—and dives beneath the world;
From the day’s fillets Night shakes out her locks;
List! One pure trembling drop of cadence purled—
“Summer!”—a meek thrush whispers to the dark.
Hark! the cold ripple sneering on the rocks!

@темы: 20, c, english-american


Paul Celan

читать дальше

Пауль Целан

Близко мы, Господи,
близко, нас можно схватить.
Уже схвачены, Господи,
сцепились друг с другом, как будто
у каждого тело —
твоё тело, Господи.
Молись, Господи,
молись нам,
мы близко.
Согбенные ветром, мы уходили,
мы уходили, чтобы склоняться
над жёлобом и над мааром{2}.
Мы шли к водопою, Господи.
Кровь, это она, это то,
что ты пролил, Господи.
Она блестела.
Нам в глаза она отражала твой образ, Господи,
глаза и рот стоят так открыты и так пусты, Господи.
Мы пили, Господи.
Кровь и образ, бывший в крови, Господи.
Молись, Господи.
Мы близко.

пер. Анна Глазова

Paul Celan

We are close, Lord
Close and within reach.

читать дальше

Paul Celan reading his own poem, Tenebrae.
читать дальше

@темы: ц, deutsche-oesterreichisch, celan, paul, c, 20



21.04.2016 в 22:14
Пишет Нэт Старбек:

“Tasting Books on her Lover’s Hands”, by Jennifer Crow
He touches her with story,
pleasures her with old tales
and the secrets of calfskin bindings.
He comes to her from the shelves,
ink stains on his cheek
and dust on his coattails.
He compliments her, saying
her ear is shaped like a scroll,
the fine lines on her brow
like pages in his beloved tomes.
And she writes on his back
with a pale finger:
I give you all my stories,
my soul burns as Alexandria.

URL записи

@темы: 21, c, english-american, repost

Pure Poetry